Black coats in the snow
by Nina28
Summary: "Rollins." He said in a stern tone, stopping her before she could go on. He did not touch her. Not while they weren't under. He could get into her space, play the creepy bastard while they were working (and she never shied away, she rose to the challenge every single time), but he had never touched her outside their assignment. And he wasn't going to.
1. Chapter 1

He was a good man. He had been a cop for a very long time. He still remembered his first undercover assignment – how green he had been, how he had had to learn how to compartmentalize very soon, before he ended up with a bleeding ulcer or a hole in his head.

Fact was, he was good at what he did. It had come with a price, of course: no family, very few friends, an empty house and pretty much chronic insomnia. Compartmentalize only really worked while he was under – that was probably the reason why he had spent so much time working. Declan Murphy was a good man: he still believed in justice, he still believed in what he did. And he believed in second chances, he believed in redemption; he knew all too well what it meant to get closer and closer to the edge.

He knew that good people could make mistakes, could fuck up but they didn't stop being good. When he saw Amanda Rollins for the first time, he knew he had to think very quickly – his first instinct, one he later would refuse to dwell on, was to let her in, even before he made sure that she wasn't dirty, that she could be trusted. Trust was a tricky thing in his line of work. He could not afford to trust anyone; his life depended on it. It was hard enough as it was, relying on other people could make the dif ference between living and dying.

What he had known was that Amanda Rollins wasn't _dirty._ Not really. Desperation made people do stupid things, but he had seen the integrity, the decency underneath it all. Even when she had offered herself up as a way out. He had decided right then that the charade had gone on long enough. He had known that if he didn't do something Amanda could be lost, could fuck up her life for good – and he had seen it happen too many times. And he could not let it happen to her too. Even if he hadn't known her.

Later, much later, he would wonder what had been so different about Amanda, he would wonder why he had made sure that she came out of that assignment with flying colors and understood the hard way just how slippery the slope she had been walking to was.

Later, he would remember how easy it had been working with her. He would remember how they had found a rhythm right away, because they were both pros, they were both good at their job. He would remember stolen seconds, in the dead of the night, in a dark car, whispered conversations while both of them looked anywhere except that at each other, because they needed to be careful. Perhaps that was the reason why he found himself outside her building, sitting on the steps, waiting for her to come home.

Because she had asked him what no one, except for the shrink he had to see and his supervisor, had asked him in a very long time.

Was he okay? He had been under for months, making a name for himself among the scum of the Earth – trying to save innocent girls, kids and boys from being trafficked, sold and used like objects. He had survived that long because he was good at thinking on his feet, he was good at making plans and strategies. And yet he hadn't been able to really answer Amanda's question.

Was he okay? No. Not really. Despite what he had told Amanda he was not fine. He was exhausted, he was angry – and he was in too deep to call it off. One year before it had been Amanda, deep in some murky waters.

" _Can I trust you?"_

 _There weren't traces of the woman he had met; the one who had challenged him with her eyes even while in her bra, the woman who had got to her knees and had looked scared and resigned (and how fucked up it was that she had been ready to slide between the vee his thighs with *that* look in her eyes? As if it was nothing new, as if she hated his guts but would do what she had offered to do, and he could go and fuck himself )._

 _She sounded tired, she sounded young and vulnerable and honest._

" _Yes. But I'm not a miracle worker, Rollins." He whispered._

 _Amanda closed her eyes, resting her head against the headrest._

" _They raped a woman – and we –"_

" _Rollins." He said in a stern tone, stopping her before she could go on. He did not touch her. Not while they weren't under. He could get into her space, play the creepy bastard while they were working (and she never shied away, she rose to the challenge every single time), but he had never touched her outside their assignment. And he wasn't going to. Even if – even if part of him wanted to. "Not now. Keep it together!"_

 _Amanda nodded. She opened her eyes and gave him a look. "I need to go – "_

 _There was something about Amanda that made him feel different; that made him be even more convincing on the job (because if things went south she would be the first one going down and he would be damned before he let that happen .)- and he knew that he had left bruises on her arms, he had seen them, and he had to fucking keep it together!_

 _It looked like she wanted to tell him something, maybe making him promise that the ambassador's wife would get justice, that a rapist would go to jail and stay there. He wished he could do that._

 _He wished he could reassure her that they were not responsible for what had happened and that justice would be done._

 _He had soon learned not to make promises if he wasn't sure he could keep them. And Amanda deserved more._

" _Yeah –" He said. "Me too. I need to go back."_

She looked surprised when she saw him. God – she was beautiful and perhaps he was more tired than he had thought, because he was usually very good at pretending he didn't notice how attractive Amanda was.

He had been her boss, he had worked with her for months, and if there was one thing he was good at was pretending. Instead he couldn't think about nothing else in that moment. She was beautiful – she was damaged, in ways he felt deep in his guts, but she was also a strong and decent woman.

"What are you doing here?" She asked.

She spoke in a soft voice – and she didn't sound or looked upset, which was a good thing, because he was honestly too tired to make up an excuse, or having to explain himself or do anything more than ask for a place to crash in. He didn't even realize, at first, that he was smiling (and that was beyond fucked up: mastering the control of his body language was one of those things about his job he was proud of. He was good, very good. He was a chameleon.) and when he did his voice came out low and hoarse, "I didn't know where else to go. I – I can't be alone right now."

Amanda looked around (old habit, muscle memory from when she was with him) and said, "Let's get inside then."

Another man, a better man (and he was a good man, he _was._ He was a good cop, he helped people. And yet he felt dirty. Used. Tired. Lonely.) would get the hell away; because the last thing Amanda Rollins needed was someone like him in her life; because he knew that she had issues, stuff that ran deep, that had left scars – because they had been alone in that room, that night, and she had not bluffed.

Apparently he was not a decent enough man, because he followed Amanda inside, and for the first time in so long he felt like he could breathe.

He had never been to Amanda's house. It said something about how tired he was that he didn't even think about looking around and tried to gather as much information about a person as he could by looking around, as he was used to do. He was not on the job.

He was – _out._ Just for one night, just until he could catch a breath and go back to be a sleazy bastard who didn't blink an eye when scumbags hit teenage girls or passed them around like candy.

"Are you hungry?" Amanda asked.

Declan started, forcing his mind out of those thoughts.

"No. No, I'm good." He said, and tried to be convincing.

He would usually be. But Amanda – he hadn't gone to Amanda to lie, to be convincing, so he shrugged his shoulders and said, "I'm not very hungry. Can't eat."

"Water, then?" She said.

He noticed that she didn't offer him any coffee or tea or anything with caffeine in it. He hadn't looked in the mirror for the past few days. It was something he did when things got like that, when he went in too deep. His mind played tricks on him and there was too much at stake. Compartmentalize was all fine and good, but sometimes hating what he saw in the mirror or, worse, not recognizing the bearded man he saw made it all a moot point, so he didn't.

He waited until things got better, because they usually did.

"Yes, thanks." He said.

He felt suddenly self conscious: of his height, of his clothes, of the gun he was carrying, of the however many days he had run on fumes. Amanda didn't tell him he could make himself comfortable, and he didn't move. He couldn't help a little smile when a dog came trotting in the living room, followed a few moments later by Amanda.

"She likes you." Amanda said.

She was smiling and she looked a fraction more relaxed than a few moments before. Declan smiled back at Amanda, accepting the glass of water she offered him. She sat on the couch and he followed her, only sitting when she gave him another smile. God, he felt about a hundred years old. He could not think. His mind was blank; it was not the first time it happened, but he usually found a hole to squat in, he forced himself to sleep and spent a day or two recharging his batteries. But that time he just couldn't- perhaps because right before that nightmare of an assignment had started he had been a real cop again: he had had a squad, people he had come to trust and rely on; the cases were the stuff of nightmares, his agents were filled with issues, but he had loved working with them, he had loved watching their backs, and knowing they were watching his.

He drank his water, realizing how thirsty he was. How long had he waited for Amanda, without moving, without uttering a sound? Hours and he honestly couldn't remember what the hell he had thought, he hadn't noticed the time going by. _Fuck!_ He needed time, he needed a few hours – and he would be as good as new.

"Are you okay?" Amanda asked and Declan noticed that he had been staring at her. She didn't seem upset, she looked – worried. Which pissed him off, for some reason. Even if he didn't have a leg to stand on.

He had gone to her, hadn't he? He had told her the truth, so there was no point in lying, now.

"I don't know." Declan admitted. It was probably the most honest he had been for the past six months. "There was this girl – " He said after what it felt like hours (it couldn't have been more than a few seconds, but time, he had learnt, could be weird, could play tricks on him). He took another sip of water and continued, "she couldn't have been more than fourteen. Looked even younger when they brought her in. They broke her – and I had to watch, pretend I approved, I didn't stop them. I couldn't, it was too risky, for both of us. I watched them beat her, rape her. If I had moved, if I had intervened, they would have invited me to the party – I dodged that bullet so far, but it's only a matter of time."

"God…" Amanda whispered, but a distant part of Declan's brain couldn't help registering that she hadn't shied away from him. He didn't hear disgust or contempt in her voice. He hazarded a look, and he only saw understanding in her eyes. Which was worse, somehow.

"I couldn't stop what happened. But I had her removed a couple of days later. I've been under too long, Amanda. I'm tired." He closed his eyes and mumbled, "I don't even know her name, you know? I made sure she was taken away, but I didn't want to know her name."

"Have you talked to someone about this?" Amanda asked

. And – was she talking to him as if he was a victim? Really? And it didn't even make him mad. He didn't even know what he felt.

"Yes, I have," He said and it hurt to admit it, "but I can't get out of there – not now. I'm in too deep and with the vacuum of power going on, this is the only chance we have."

He felt Amanda's hand on his arm, but he didn't open his eyes; big shows of emotions were _not_ his thing. Amanda though – she was different. There had always been something different about her and there was a connection between them. It was something that had been there, unspoken, since the very beginning, it didn't matter how hard he had ignored it.

"What can I do?" Amanda asked, after a moment of silence, and Declan could feel the warmth of Amanda's hand through the fabric of his shirt; she smelled good, of soap and perfume, nothing too showy, but it suited her. He finally opened his eyes and looked at her.

She looked tired, yet there was a small smile on her lips. "Sorry I crashed here, Amanda."

"It's okay." Amanda said, "Look…can you spend the night here?"

His eyebrows shot high, and Amanda seemed to catch up with her words. The fact that both of them looked away and the moment of awkward silence that fell between them spoke volumes about – things, those things that were there, had been there since the very beginning and, apparently, hadn't disappeared. He had told her she had a blind spot for men in positions of power. It had been something he had told her due to the case they had been working on, but it had also been an attempt to put distance between them.

It had been necessary, it had been self preservation – because it was something he was exceptional at. Because there was something about Amanda and he that spelled disaster waiting to happen. Because he was too old, too jaded, too damaged, too everything that she didn't need, to even dwell on what might bes. Amanda was there, though – she had been there, for him, even at the precint (and it had been perfectly fine, for him, that she had been the one who had handcuffed him, twice.)

"Yes." He said, answering to her question. They were adults, they were colleagues, he could spend the night on her couch and recharge – he could ignore his attraction toward her, or the fact that their bodies, for some reason, always seemed to gravitate toward each other's. He just needed something good, something real, something that didn't make him want to start smashing things until there was nothing left, until he could look again at the man in the mirror and see himself.

"Cool. You can stay here as long as you want." Amanda replied.

She took the glass from his hands, and squeezed his right hand for a moment, "I mean it. You look like shit, Declan."

Declan shook his head, not caring that she had dropped the formalities; feeling rather comforted by it, on the contrary. But despite what he thought he needed, the truth was that he could not stay there.

He would put Amanda at risk if he stayed; he risked his cover – and yet, for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to get up, to thank her and tell her he was better, and leave, hole up in some motel room, maybe even taking some xanax or valium and sleep until he felt halfway human again.

"I'll just crash here for the night." He eventually said.

He had to survive. He had to find a way to pull his shit together and go back and do his job; things were moving fast – and if things went according to the plan he would leave the States soon, he would be granted access to people and information that would bring one of the biggest sex trafficking rings in the world to its knees.

"Look," Amanda said, "why don't you take a shower, relax a little? I'll make myself scarce, you need the rest."

"Are you mothering me, detective?" Declan asked, realizing only a second too late how, despite his words, how laced with flirting his voice had been. _Damn!_ He had kept things under control for such a long time and now – he must really be even more tired than he thought.

Amanda smiled, "Not really. Not mothering. That would be _…weird."_ She said.

"I'm not here to –" Declan interrupted her.

Amanda touched him again, a light brush of her fingers against his, and said, "I know. Look, it's late: go get a shower, get some sleep. We'll talk tomorrow if you want, okay?"

Declan nodded and slowly got up from the couch, allowing himself to look around for the first time, but refusing to let his mind dwell on what he was seeing. He wanted to just be, for a few hours.

Amanda showed him the bathroom and said, "Go, take your time."

"Thank you." Declan said. He appreciated that Amanda didn't tell him that she owed him one, that he had seen her about to hit rock bottom the year before, so she was only returning the favor. He didn't turn on the lights in the bathroom (another habit he had picked up recently.), he showered in the dark, grateful for the hot water – he hadn't realized just how cold he really had been.

He heard Amanda telling him that she had left some clothes outside the door (and he really didn't want to know to whom those clothes belonged. It was none of his business. He had no right to ask. No right to know.). He turned on the lights when he was done with the shower, avoiding to look in the mirror even while he brushed his teeth with a new toothbrush he found in a drawer. He didn't need to look at the man in the mirror, not that night. It was too soon, he wasn't ready. He just needed to get some sleep, to close his eyes and feel safe, to not have to sleep with one eye open, alert to any danger.

When he got out of the bathroom he noticed that Amanda had placed blankets and a cushion on the couch, she had also dimmed the lights. The bedroom's door was closed, so he used the privacy he had been afforded to quickly put on the clothes she had given him. The clothes fitted, they were clean and Declan felt suddenly exhausted.

He looked around for a moment, and with a sigh went to what he assumed to be Amanda's bedroom. It took him a moment to knock at her door, his knuckles still against the door, his heart hammering in his chest (and God, how long it had been since he had felt his heart beating in his chest like _that,_ for those kind of things?)

"Declan?" Amanda said from the other side of the door. And Declan was more grateful than he could say for that gesture.

If she opened that door, if she – touched him, he was almost sure he would crumble down that night. And that was a luxury he could _not_ afford. Also, he would not do that to Amanda. God knew that woman had her own problems, her own issues to sort through. The last thing he wanted was to burden her with his dark moments. She sure as hell deserved more.

"Is everything alright?" Amanda asked, and Declan knew she was right behind that door: he had heard he get up and take a few steps.

 _Oh, Amanda_ …he thought. "Just wanted to say thank you." Declan said.

There was a moment of silence which Declan felt deeply, he felt the blood rushing through his veins, and he had to force himself not to touch the handle of the door.

"You're welcome. Good night, Declan. Try to get some sleep." The woman whispered, but Declan heard her clearly, his senses were completely focused on her.

"Good night, Amanda." He said after a moment. His voice was steady, it did not betray any of what was going through his mind: the need he felt to see her, to feel her, so suddenly overwhelming that it took his breath away.

He was a man of discipline: it was hard ingrained, stronger than anything else. It was one of the things that had kept him alive, it was what kept him together in moments like these, in nights like that one – when he was coming undone at the seams and he refused to take the easy way out and become a cliché like so many colleagues he had met through the years.

He smiled, knowing somehow, that Amanda was still there, behind that door and went to the couch.

He had thought falling asleep would be hard, that he would spend the night staring at the ceiling, trying to move as little as possible not to disturb Amanda. He fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

He looked younger in his sleep. Amanda had heard him trashing in his sleep. Declan Murphy was not the kind of man who moaned in his sleep while having nightmares. No. But he moved, he closed his hands in fists and creased his brows, while – he saw, relieved whatever scenario his mind had come up with. And God knew whether he must have some serious stuff holed up in his mind, ready to come out and haunt him at night. They all had.

Amanda was not the kind of woman who stared at sleeping men. She seldom did those kind of things even with men she had sex with, let alone former bosses who had looked one breath away from coming undone. It was not the fact that she owed Declan her career; he could have thrown her under the bus, he should have the year before; instead he had trusted her to have his back, to do her job, and in return she had found herself again.

She hadn't touched him. She knew better than that, she had stood in the living room, trying not to move, not to alert him – and had just stared at him, for no reason or, at least, none she could understand. Declan looked younger, he didn't look like the man she had met the year before: but she already knew he wasn't the man she had met in that club.

He wasn't even the man she had talked to, in those brief moments where she reported to him, during the case, the one who was dressed like the sleaze he was playing, but had kind eyes and didn't allow her to lose her focus.

He didn't even look like the man who had been her boss for a few months.

She didn't know a lot about Declan Murphy, but she knew that it must have cost him a lot to show up at her doorstep and admit that things were not okay. Thing was – she had always felt safe with Declan. She trusted him, in ways that she could not explain, not even to herself.

He had told her about that girl, and had spoken in a hoarse voice and Amanda had known that it was bad, that it had somehow done a number on him. It was something she suspected he couldn't just shake off as yet another case of "the end justifies the means".

He had trusted her, and Amanda wasn't sure he had been totally aware of what he had been doing or even saying. Not that she cared, the only thing that had really mattered was to make sure the man was okay, that he would not leave and do something that might endanger himself.

Just like she had suspected Declan Murphy was indeed not the kind of man who cried out in his sleep – she saw right away when the nightmares began again. She knew that she was not supposed to wake someone who was having a nightmare, especially if that someone was a cop – but she couldn't just stay there, staring at the sleeping man on her couch without doing anything.

She moved quickly, sliding on her knees in front of him. She ignored the déjà vu she was feeling. It was different, of course – she wasn't in any danger, they were not in a gambling club – and her life, her career was not going to hell in a handbasket. She shook her head, forcing those thoughts away.

It was _not_ about her; it was about Declan – who had never mentioned, not once, what had happened in that room before he revealed he was a cop. No one knew how he had revealed his identity. No one knew that she had been ready to get on her knees to get out of trouble.

He had never told anyone – and he had pretended that it had never happened. And God knew whether she had learnt the hard way that being a cop didn't make necessarily a man, a good person. One who didn't take advantage and didn't take what they wanted. But Declan hadn't. not once. Not even when he could have. On the contrary, Declan had made a point not to touch her when they were not pretending, the year before; he had made it very clear, with no words (because he really didn't need a lot of words with her, he never did), that he was not Declan O'Rourke. He was a cop, a good cop, doing his job – and trying to save hers, as well.

She had been carding her fingers through his hair, without even noticing which was all kind of wrong, for all kind of reasons, but it all came to a sudden stop when Declan grabbed her wrist.

She looked down at him and met his eyes, smiling despite herself at the puzzled look on his face.

"I'm sorry –" She whispered. "I shouldn't have –"

Her fingers were still in his hair and he was still grabbing her wrist. She couldn't move, she couldn't do anything except stare at him.

She didn't (couldn't) say, "you were having a nightmare, and I didn't want to startle you, and I was thinking about that time you didn't take advantage of me, and how it reminded me of things and people I hate to remember – and you, _you_ kinda broke my heart and I might have missed you more than I thought…"

She swallowed when she felt the intensity of the man's stare on her.

"Amanda –" He said.

His voice was thick with sleep and he was still gripping her wrist. She wondered whether he was aware of that; she shivered, but – she still felt safe.

"I –" She trailed.

"Thanks –" Declan said. She had no idea what he was thanking her for: letting him stay on a couch which would be hell on his neck when he woke up? Not mentioning the nightmares he was having? She didn't know. She wasn't sure she cared.

Neither of them moved, Amanda could feel time stretch and still around them. Her senses were completely focused on the man in front of her: she could hear him breath, she could feel his fingers wrapped around her wrist.

It was gravity, doing its thing, it was that undercurrent that had always hummed, just beneath the surface, between them, but she wasn't really surprised when she became aware of the fact that she was touching his lips with hers. Or he was brushing her lips with his. Same difference.

Silence, dotted only by the sounds of their breaths softly mingling, and of the city, outside. It was oddly intimate to share her breath with him, like they were doing more than sharing space, more than the soft, feather like brushes of lips.

She parted her lips, acting on instinct, when Declan fingers left his wrist and trailed up, slowly, teasingly over her naked arm, brushing her skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind.

Declan tasted of peppermint and sleep. His beard tickled her face – and she shivered with anticipation, thinking about how that beard would feel against her naked flesh – and she smiled against his lips.

She had forgotten her fingers were still in his hair, but when Declan mirrored her gesture she remembered, and God, it felt wonderful: the way they were teasing each other with their lips, with their tongues. It was intense; the way Declan angled her head to deepen the kiss, the way her heart hammered in her chest, making her forget that she was still on her knees in her living room, and Declan was kissing her as if his life depended on it – and Amanda could feel heat pooling between her legs, and she wanted _more._

And she knew what happened when she wanted something that much. She didn't get it.

He was the one who broke the kiss. And she hadn't even noticed that she was breathless, she hadn't even noticed that he was too. She closed her eyes, taking in big gulps of air, and smiled when he kissed her forehead.

"Amanda." Declan said. It was a question, it was a warning, it was a plea. Amanda didn't know what he was asking, but she soon found out that it wasn't – _that._

"Don't do that, _darling…"_ He said, and she didn't understand. His thumbs were brushing her lips and they were close, too close, "it'd feel like a pity fuck."

"It wouldn't." She whispered. And it was the truth. It wouldn't be a pity fuck. Not with him, there was too much between them, a level of trust, of respect that she valued, treasured even. And he deserved more than that, they both did.

"I didn't want to wake you up." He said, changing the subject. And part of her, a childish part, perhaps, wanted to ask, "but don't you want me?"

And Declan would not lie to her – and that would be worse.

It would make her feel like damaged goods, like she wasn't worthy. Because she was not blind, she knew he wanted her.

"I – I wasn't really sleeping." She replied eventually. Because following Declan's lead was better than the alternative.

The man looked at her for a second, and she was sure he could see everything about her, and she knew she should get up, make up some lame excuse and go back to her bedroom. It would be better for everyone.

She had always sucked at self preservation in her private life.

Declan moved – and later she would wonder how on Earth they had defied the laws of physics and fit on that couch – and lifted the blanket.

"Not a word." He said, but the look in his eyes was soft, warm.

It was up to her. She could get up, go to her bedroom and it would be over. They would both pretend nothing had happened, and she knew Declan would never hold it against her. She would still have his friendship, his respect – and after a while she would truly forget that for a moment she had lost her head and how much she had wanted that man.

She didn't want to forget.

She didn't want to pretend that her lips weren't still tingling with Declan's kiss, that she could still taste him and still had goosebumps on her skin. Somehow they fit together, he bracketed her in his arms, and it was – _worse,_ more intimate than some sex on the couch (or the floor, or wherever they'd have ended up).

She could feel, hear him breathing, she could feel his lips placing a soft kiss on the crown of her head and she closed her eyes. She had to.

"Whatever you're thinking? Don't –" Declan whispered and his voice was apparently connected to the pleasure center of her brain, because she shivered, and Declan (and when, exactly, had he become _Declan?)_ held her tighter at him.

And could things get any worse?

"When I take you to bed, Amanda, it will be clear it is not a pity fuck. It will be just you and I – no baggage. Now sleep, _darling."_

"Did – did you call me darling?" She said, before she could say something that would embarass her.

"Did I?" Declan sleepily asked, but she could hear the smile in his voice, she could feel how his heart was beating fast in his chest, and how much he wanted her.

"Twice." Amanda said, and she smiled as well.

Declan's only reply was another kiss, at her temple, And that? That was worse.

That was infinitely worse than having sex, because she wanted that, she didn't feel like crawling out from her own skin at the intimacy and the warmth they were sharing, as always, she believed him.

She trusted him, implicitly.


	2. Chapter 2

_It had taken them a little more than ten minutes, in the end, to come up with a plan and he had to admit he was impressed with Amanda Rollins; she could have pulled out from the case, her sergeant had wanted her out when things had gotten too heated and the lines had started to appear to blurred, but she didn't. She had called him, she had told him that she wanted to finish the job._

" _Tonight?" He had asked and his mind had already started forming plans, strategies – and underneath it all he had felt relief at the idea of finally finishing the job, of putting that shitty undercover job behind his shoulders once and for all. Two years of playing Declan O'Rourke, of trying to connect the dots, knowing that gambling was just the tip of the iceberg, and eventually it took them a few minutes to find a way to finish the job._

" _You will have to trust me." He had told her – and she had. She had played her part perfectly; she had relied on him – and he hadn't missed the look of genuine confusion and hurt on her face (with a side of "what the fuck? Are you crazy?") on Amanda's face when he had pistol whipped her thus officially putting an end to the assignment._

 _For a moment, there, she had really been scared – and now that things were finally quieting down, at the ass crack of dawn, he couldn't help going back to that moment, right before he had arrested Sondra and Anton Nadari; he couldn't help thinking about the confusion on her face and the fear (did she think that he had double crossed her?). It was ludicrous to think about that. He didn't do that. He would have gone crazy a long time before if he had ever wallowed in self doubts, in remorse. He had regrets, of course. Lord knew whether he did, but he did not, could not afford the luxury to stop and examine every questionable thing he had done. It was the job - it was what it was, he had accepted that a long time before._

 _Thinking about how confused Rollins had looked, how scared, only showed that he had been under for far too long. And yet he kept throwing sideway glances at the woman as he drove her home. Why had he offered to drive her home after the long night they had had, was something he really didn't want to think about. And bullshitting himself when he wasn't under was something he usually didn't do._

 _When one lived a life ripe with lies and deceits for a living, one had to be completely, brutally honest in their real life. It was how he kept sane. The truth was that he couldn't let go of the look on Amanda's face while she was on the floor. It was as simple as that, really. Amanda was holding an icepack against the side of her face – she had been a real trooper so far; but it was clear she was about to crash and he didn't want to…_

 _To what…exactly? He didn't want her to think that he might be the kind of man who got off on hitting women? That he was an asshole?_

" _You didn't have to drive me home, lieutenant." Amanda said, breaking the silence in the car. It wasn't even a particularly awkward silence. They were both too tired and it wasn't over, yet; there was still IAB to deal with._

" _I know." Declan replied. "You did a good job there, detective Rollins."_

 _He met her eyes when she turned her head to look at him. She shrugged her shoulders and said, "At least I will go down with a bang!"_

 _She smiled and Declan broke eye contact, choosing to focus on the road. Better not to look at her, better focusing on simple things. On things he could actually accomplish._

" _You are not going anywhere, detective. Not if I can help it." Amanda didn't reply. He didn't talk either. He could tell her to trust him, but she was sporting a bruise on her cheekbone as proof of her trust in him and their plan._

 _He didn't tell her anything. He supposed he would have to show her that she could trust him. That he was on her side. He had been from the beginning._

In a perfect world Declan Murphy would have bounced back from that dark place in his mind with just a good night's sleep. He would have had sex with a blonde woman he just couldn't get out of his head (and not for lack of trying), he would have kissed her goodbye the morning after and things would have been fine. He didn't live in a perfect world.

He was not bouncing back. He was crawling his way out of that dark hole inside of him, but at least he felt almost human when he finally opened his eyes. He also had an armful of blonde detective wrapped in his arms (and he would never, _ever_ understand, even much later, how did they sleep so comfortably on that couch.), his neck was killing him and he was starting to think that making the right call the night before had been a terribly bad idea.

He was not a saint, far from it, as the past few months had irrevocably proved, but – having sex with Amanda the night before would have been a mistake, one they would both regret later. He had felt so raw, so close to going to pieces, that not having sex had been an act of self preservation. He also knew, felt, that it would have been wrong for Amanda as well. She was right, it wouldn't have been a pity fuck, but it would have felt like one. And if what he wanted was just some sex, he could have gotten it anywhere. If what he wanted was to just get off and bask in the chemicals of post orgasm bliss he would have picked a random stranger in a bar – it would have been far less dangerous than seeking out Amanda.

Yet – he hadn't let her go. He had seen the confusion, the doubts, the many questions crossing her features, and – he had known that he couldn't let her go, so he didn't. And perhaps he had made things worse for him, because he had fallen asleep smiling. He had remembered what it was like to fall asleep with someone in his arms, someone whom he trusted, cared for.

He had forgotten the sheer intimacy of feeling someone's heartbeat under his palm, of cold feet against his shins, of hair tickling his nose, of limbs entangled. He had forgotten what peacefulness was really like. And that was scary, because as soon as Amanda woke up he would have to leave, go back to the job, because things were moving fast, and he could actually save hundreds of lives, he could save those girls –

 _Baby blue eyes, long blonde hair, fair skin. She was just a kid. Just a kid. She was scared out of her mind, high as a kite. She was thin, she must have run away from home – and he had to leave that room. He had to go away, because he knew what was going to happen in a few seconds – and he could turn a blind eye and pretend he couldn't taste bile in his throat only if he wasn't in the same room with that girl._

 _One life versus a hundred, thousands. Months of hard work – and he could save that girl, he could. He could come up with a plan, with a way out for that girl. He could pretend he wanted to break her himself, he could make her rest and sleep the drugs off. And he could make it convincing. The girl was too young, though; she was not reliable, she would fuck up and he could not let that happen. He wasn't sure he had ever hated his job or himself more._

Amanda shifted, bringing Declan back to the present, to that living room, away from his life under. He clenched his jaws. He had sacrificed a girl for the greater good, he had made a questionable choice. He had to live with it and get it together. Apparently, though, his body had other ideas, because when Amanda shifted again in her sleep, his arms automatically wrapped tighter around her. And that was before, hours before they found out about the blizzard outside.

He would think, later, that he had been still drowsy with sleep, that there were perfect excuses as to why he hadn't noticed the changes in the weather. But the truth was that he was too busy falling asleep again holding a woman that, for all intents and purposes, he should stay away from. And he didn't care.

" _Rollins, you're with me!" Declan said._

 _Amanda blinked her eyes, surprised by lieutenant Murphy's request. Somehow she had expected him to go undercover with Liv at the gallery. She hadn't expected him to want her with him. If working undercover with lieutenant Murphy had been hard, having him as her C. O. was – difficult, sometimes. It looked like he was constantly testing her, sniping at her. Not that she didn't deserve that, considering the way they had met, but she had thought that lieutenant Murphy trusted her, that he had been sincere in wanting her to have a second chance._

" _Is there a problem, Rollins?" He asked._

" _No, sir. Not at all." She replied._

 _He was trusting her enough to want her with him at the gallery, that would have to suffice._

 _She just had to play the part while he did his thing, which kind of became her mantra when she saw him in the squad room, dressed for the part, before leaving. She was not unaware of that undercurrent between them; she had noticed it while undercover, but things had been too hectic and crazy and dangerous to dwell on that attraction that was there, despite everything, between. Ignoring it had been easier when he had become her boss, because despite what he had told her about having a blind spot for men in position of power (if only he truly knew how much she had paid for that), and despite the fact that Murphy was a good man, that he was not Charles Patton, she truly didn't want to risk making the same mistakes twice._

 _But – he did not only was dressed for the part, he had become the man he would play at the gallery: his posture and his movements were different, all confidence and slick elegance that spoke of money and power, and the look he gave her when he saw her felt different, somehow. Damn it! What was her problem? She tried to rationalize it._

 _She saw how he masked the appraising look he had first given her with blank professionalism (because they were cops, and that creep at the gallery fantasized about torturing and killing young kids and he needed to be stopped.) and she did the same. And it didn't matter that she liked what she saw when she glimpsed their reflected image in the mirror._

 _It didn't even matter that working undercover, even for a short stint, with lieutenant Murphy was easy, that she felt like a better cop when working with him (whether they were in an art gallery or in an abandoned warehouse looking for Liv and Amelia.)_

 _It didn't matter._

 _Whatever there was between them, whatever weird mutual and unspoken attraction had developed between them it was better to just pretend it wasn't there._

 _She was a pro at that._

"Amanda…" Declan's voice tore through the haze of possibly the deepest sleep she had had for years.

Amanda made a sound, realizing that she had used Declan's shoulder as a pillow and that his skin was warm. Very, very warm. She opened her eyes, waiting for the inevitable freak out to hit her, full force, for her body to move – but it didn't happen.

She rested her chin on the man's shoulder and smiled.

"Hey." She said.

That was weird. She was supposed to feel panic, she was supposed to do something – either about the fact that she had spent the night tangled in her former's boss arms, without having sex with him (because Declan was honorable and had decided that his life's mission was to save her from herself.) or because she was still in the man's arms and she felt like she could spend the day like that.

Which was _not_ normal. Not for her.

"I didn't want to wake you up –" He said, "but it's getting late. Aren't you working today?"

"Week end off." She replied.

Declan looked confused for a moment, before he asked, "What day is it?"

"Saturday." She said. And it hurt to think that Declan had lost the count of the days. Just – how bad things were for him, really?

Declan must have noticed – or he had seriously amazing skills in reading her – because she felt him tense.

"I should probably go." He said. He made no attempt to move, though and Amanda felt like she had skipped something, maybe the part where she freaked out or he made up excuses, because she could only smile when she said, "You stayed."

Declan smiled, and Amanda thought that she liked to see him smile – she hadn't had many chances to see him smile since she had known him, which was too bad, because he had a beautiful smile, it made him look younger, it made him look like a different man.

He hesitated for a moment before brushing away a lock of hair from her face with his fingers, and once again she felt like she had skipped some important part – she felt like things were supposed to feel more complicated, like she wasn't supposed to feel so content.

Declan did not reply to her, but she hadn't really expected him to for some reason. He had stayed. She had not woken up alone, wondering whether the man was okay. And he was still there, looking at her with an inquisitive look in his blue eyes.

"I honestly thought – " She sighed, "I don't know what I thought, Declan."

"That I would leave before you woke up, apparently." The man replied, he was still smiling, but she recognized the way he was looking at her: he was reading her, probably like an open book, and she thought that the fact that it didn't make her uneasy was just another item to add up to the pile of things that weren't supposed to make sense but they did when she was with that man.

She shrugged and realized only a second too late that she had placed a kiss on the side of his neck. She didn't do it on purpose or to tease a reaction out of him. It had just felt natural – and it still did, and she decided to give up on trying to make sense of things, it was too early, she was too content, too mellow with a good night's sleep to.

Declan didn't seem to mind either, if possible (and it felt like everything was, right at that moment), he held her even tighter at him, his fingers slipped underneath her shirt and that was like a jolt of electricity.

It wasn't the first time Declan touched her (and with hindsight she realized that she should have wondered why, despite having ripped her shirt open, his touch had been so gentle.), but that wasn't the past, that wasn't an assignment, that was them, on her couch, wrapped into each other's arms as if it was second nature to them, and Declan's touch was real, it was not a ruse.

"I should go." Declan said and his voice came out a little hoarse, and she could only nod, at first, acutely aware of both her body and Declan's reactions to their proximity.

"You said that." She said eventually.

"Smartass." He replied with a smile.

"You don't have to go – if you don't want to." She said, and a distant part of herself wondered when, exactly, her body had started to act of its own volition, because she was tracing the man's profile with her fingertips and it felt so intimate, that she when her mind caught up she was tempted to stop.

"What _I_ want is not really the issue here." Declan said.

Of course. He had a job to do, a trafficking ring to take down, lives to save – but didn't he see the toll it was taking on him? He did – and he had come to her, the night before and she still didn't know what to make of it.

"Mmm –" She mumbled, and somehow, for the past few seconds, while Declan was being a stand up guy and she was trying not to tell him that perhaps he should think about himself for once, since he would have to go back under, after, their bodies had started rocking against each other's.

They both realized what was going on at the same time, there was a moment where she could honestly say that she could hear both their heartbeats in the room and the soft sound of the rustling of fabric and then – they were both chuckling; they were being ridiculous, acting like horny kids rather than the adults they were and it felt so good to laugh, to feel the laughter bubbling up in her chest, that she didn't care.

"Alright – point made!" Declan said, but despite the gruff tone of his voice he was smiling and looked more relaxed than she had ever seen him. He looked like he had made peace with something in his mind, in his heart.

"Ok, why don't we – take this in my bedroom?" Amanda asked and she didn't try for sultry; the thing with Declan was that he had seen her at her very worst and she didn't have to pretend with him, she could be herself, with all her baggage and fuck ups, and it was liberating.

"Just out of curiosity, Amanda –" Declan said and the way he was tracing patterns on her back with his fingertips was distracting; she nodded her head wishing Declan would kiss her already and the fact that he still wasn't, despite she could feel how much he wanted her, was somehow incredibly arousing.

"Am I stepping on any toes here?"

"Not really." She said. And she really didn't want to talk about it.

"Fair enough." Declan said, "So, you were saying something about moving to your bedroom?"

"I'd like that." Amanda said, and Declan seemed to agree with her.

When she noticed the blizzard going on outside, making it impossible to even make out the shapes of the buildings in front of hers, she was in Declan's arms, as he was carrying her in the bedroom.

"Oh, my God –" She said, and the look on Declan's face when he peered outside the window would have been almost comical in other moments.

"How did we not notice?" He wondered aloud and Amanda could only shrug her shoulders, choosing to ignore the weird, sudden, dance her heart had done at Declan's words, at the possibilities ...and how much she liked him using _we_ with such ease.

 _Who are you?_ She wondered.

She didn't tell him, though. Declan looked relaxed, he was smiling...the job seemingly far away, for once.

"Looks like you're stuck here for now." She said.

Declan's only reply was a deep, scorching kiss. The first of many.

The call came at night, on his other number, the one only a handful of people knew.

Declan blindly looked for the glasses he kept on the nightstand and put them on; he looked at the display of the phone, recognizing right away the number.

 _Right._ He thought. He had completely forgotten that he was supposed to check in every now and then; he had thought that Interpol would deal with that side of things, reassuring NYPD that lieutenant Declan Murphy was alive, had not gone rogue and was still doing his job. Fred Aiello was a friend, though; he was one of the few people Declan really trusted, he usually had his back.

"You still alive?" Fred asked as way of greeting.

"Apparently." Declan countered.

He searched the small apartment he was renting for bugs everyday, and even if he knew the rooms were clean, one could never be too careful.

"You're a ray of sunshine." Fred said, and Declan knew that his c.o. had probably scoffed at what the Interpol report said and wanted to hear it from him.

"It's 3 a.m here!" Declan replied warily, snorting as he turned on the bedside lamp.

"Humor me." Fred said. "What's going on, Murphy?"

And that was Fred in a nutshell; he always got results. He was a good c.o.,looking out for his men, even when the were thousands of miles away working on joint operations with other agencies to bring down a sex trafficking ring and were in a town whose name he couldn't even spell, not at 3 in the morning, anyway.

He sat with his back against the headboard, and he couldn't shake the feeling that his captain had not called him in the middle of the night just to hear the latest report.

"By the way," Fred said in a (too) casual tone after he finished with his report, "Remember detective Rollins?"

"Yes." He said, and he didn't add anything else.

He didn't ask if she was alright (she _had_ to be), he waited for Fred to talk, because he had no doubts he would.

He also knew that Fred would probably read into his paucity of words, even if he didn't show it when he continued, "I ran into her yesterday. She looks about ready to pop."

"Come again?" Declan asked, because his mind had chosen that moment to short-circuit. And he respected Fred too much to pretend that his words hadn't come as a surprise.

 _Understatement of the year_. He thought.

"She is pregnant." Fred said, and he could hear the man's implicit questions loud and clear, "Did you knock her up? Is it yours?"

Fred knew about Amanda and he. He knew because he was a paranoid bastard and he had tracked the GPS on both his cell phones after he had stormed out of his office back in February.

He had tracked him right to Amanda's address because he had been worried about him, because things had been bad, he had been under for too long and the cracks had started to show. He knew. He had always known, even though he had only mentioned it in passing, after. He had never asked what had happened because he knew he would have told him to mind his own fucking business.

"You ok?" Fred asked.

It was the friend asking, not his c.o. and Declan appreciated the concern.

"Yeah. Fine. Thank you." Declan said.

It took him a couple of seconds to realize that he was up, pacing the room with long, measured steps.

"She looks – happy, and she isn't wearing a wedding ring, in case you're wondering." Fred said.

Declan didn't ask him for more details, even if he knew that the man would give them if he did; he didn't even ask him about how far along he thought Amanda was. Fred wouldn't have told him if he didn't have suspicions.

"I might need a favour." Declan said and couldn't help a small smile when he heard Fred sighing on the other side.

The good thing was that Fred would help him, like he always did, without wanting anything in exchange.

"I'm on it." Fred said.

"I owe you one." Declan said and couldn't help smiling when Fred said, "No you don't."

He threw some clothes in a duffel bag he kept under his bed. He could disappear for a couple of days without blowing his cover, he would be in New York in half a day.

"She asked me about you." Fred said. "I thought she didn't even remember me, but she did."

Declan stopped. When he had left Amanda's apartment there hadn't been promises, there hadn't even been too many words exchanged. There had been smiles and coffee slowly sipped against the counter, looking at each other, as if they could buy more time that way, and when he had left – feeling human again, feeling light and happier than he had been for a very long time, ready to go back to his job, she had whispered against his chest, "Please be safe."

"You too." He had said, thinking that he needed to leave, before it became too hard to, before he got too used to holding Amanda in his arms and too content with it.

People in Serbia didn't ask him questions, he had made sure those scumbags knew that he was not the kind of man that could be fucked with. He had made sure people feared him and had no choice but to follow his lead.

He listened as Fred gave him the instructions. He didn't have much time, and he knew things would not get any easier in New York. Fred asked him to keep in touch and he grunted his reply before disconnecting the call.

As he took his shower he tried to focus on his cover, he tried not to think about the blonde detective in New York. He would have all the time to think about Amanda during his trip back to New York, he would have all the time to go back and think about the week end they had spent together in February and whether the baby she was carrying was his.

He would have all the time to go from, "Jesus Christ this can't be happening." To, "I want this.", from, "there is no way the baby's mine." To, "I know when it happened." And the thing was – it didn't matter how crazy it was, he knew exactly when it had happened.

 _The blizzard had finally quieted down, things were slowly coming back to normal and he knew that he would have to leave soon. He wasn't even supposed to have stayed in that apartment, with that woman, for so long. It had been crazy, it had been reckless – and he had loved ever minute of it. Even now, he was supposed to get dressed, instead he was on the couch, holding Amanda in his arms, both of them wrapped in a blanket, Frannie sleeping on the floor, the tv was on but neither of them was watching it._

 _He could not stay; of course he couldn't. He should also turn on his cell phone, he should slowly start to get back into Bishop's mind, and he would, soon. Just like Amanda would eventually answer her phone (and deal with whatever was her situation with detective Amaro, regardless of his presence in her life.), and yet he made no attempt to move until Amanda shifted, tilting her head up so that her chin was on his chest and they were so close that they could kiss if they wanted to._

 _And he very much wanted to. Even if he knew how dangerous it really was, on so many levels, to stay there. It did not matter what he might feel; he knew that as soon as the sun went down he was going to leave that apartment, because that was the right thing to do. It was his job._

 _Besides, Amanda had her own issues, her own demons, he was not going to make her life even more complicated than it already was with his presence in her life._

" _You're making that face…" Amanda said._

" _What face?" He asked, loving the feeling of her body wrapped in his arms, of her voice low with sleep and aftermath of sex, and her smile touching his skin._

" _The brooding one." She said._

" _I'm sorry?" He said – had he lowered his guard down so much that she could read right through him? He couldn't honestly remember when the last time he had gotten so close to someone, in such a short amount of time, had been._

" _Yeah – you're thinking about the job, aren't you?" She asked._

 _Declan shrugged, "I'm thinking that I should check my phone, but I don't really want to."_

" _Then don't." Amanda said, "Even the universe is telling you to take it easy for a couple of days."_

" _My higher power looking out for me?" Declan asked, smiling, using the same words Amanda had once used._

 _She seemed surprised by his words, she opened her mouth to say something, but decided against it at the last second, and shifted instead, brushing his lips with hers. "I don't know about that, but …"_

I wish I could stay here… _he thought. And he really did. "_

 _I know you have to go –" She said, after a moment of silence, "and you will do whatever it takes to finish the job, but now? You're still stuck here with me, until sundown, at least."_

" _Oh, the hardship…" Declan said, and let out a surprised yelp when she tickled his sides._

 _He was still laughing when they moved and he was above her, and he already knew how well they fit together, but he loved the way she was smiling, looking at him with absolute trust. And knowing what he knew about her, now, what she had chosen to share with him, he was, once again, humbled by the level of trust that woman kept showing him._

 _Her skin was hot, almost feverishly so, under his fingertips, and her hair was tousled for having been in his arms for – however many hours they had been together, and her eyes were bright ._

" _God, you're beautiful." He said and there must be something in his voice or in his look, because Amanda tilted her head on a side, staring at him for a moment._

 _She didn't say anything, and Declan wanted to tell her that he wasn't just talking about her physical appearance. He was not blind, he knew Amanda Rollins was a very attractive woman. There was more to her than her physical appearance, though – but self preservation was too much an ingrained mechanism, therefore he didn't say anything._

 _He just stared at her, like an idiot, until Amanda sought his lips with hers, and then – he could not really think. He didn't have to. He just loved the taste of her skin, how responsive she was to his lips, his touch._

" _How are you real?" She said, panting against his lips, and it felt like something that had struggled to come out from her mouth._

 _She was rocking her hips against his, and he could feel against his palms that her nipples were hard, yet she was looking at him, almost embarrassed by her words. He kissed her. He was real with her – he was himself: the good and the bad and the ugly, his issues, his nightmares, his job – how he still believed that he was doing something good, that he was making the difference._

 _She blinked her eyes for a moment and kissed him, hungrily, shutting him up before he could say anything, for which he was grateful._

" _Declan…" she said, taking his face in her hands, "stay with me. Now."_

 _And he knew what she meant, the same way they always seemed to know what the other meant, which was probably the worst thing – the most dangerous. He nodded at her words, letting her kiss him again, and again. Even if with every kiss, it became harder and harder to pretend that it was just sex, that it was just a week end romp; because it wasn't just that – at least not for him._

 _She wrapped her legs around his hips, in silent invitation – but Declan took things slowly, that time. It was probably the last time he would ever be with Amanda and he wanted to savor it. Which was all fine and good, if it weren't that she was sucking on his earlobe, and he could feel her, her heat, her smell, so inviting and intoxicating. He sought her mouth, kissing her, tickling her lips and cheekbones with his beard (who would have thought? She liked it, as he had found out soon.)_

 _"Declan…" She panted. It was a plea, his name whispered against his lips._

" _What do you want?" He whispered, locking gazes with her._

 _She didn't reply, not with words, she rocked her hips against his, urging him to move. And he did, while still looking at her, and for a moment everything around them seemed to fade. There was just the feeling of their bodies moving together, the heat of her body enveloping him._

 _They moved together, once again defying the laws of physics and Amanda was above him. She was breathtaking: golden, mussed hair framing her face, bright blue eyes fixed on him, soft tanned skin that he could not stop touching and tasting._

 _He would leave bruises, perhaps, just like he knew that he had scratch marks on his back and a hickey on his chest, and it was fine with him; he liked the idea of having something tangible, for a little while, to remind him that it had really happened, that there had been a break from his bleak reality made of pretending and dealing with scumbags, with girls so young that they could be his daughters whom he could not save._

 _She moved over him, setting up a tantalizingly slow rhythm, which he followed, while his hands caressed her sides, leaving goosebumps on its wake. That was the last time he would be with Amanda and perhaps that awareness was heightening each sense, so much that she seemed to be everywhere: he was breathing her, tasting her. He was in her, but she – she was enveloping him and everywhere seemed distant, the only thing that mattered was the two of them, on that couch. She arched her back when his hands went to her breasts, circling her hard nipples with the pad of his thumbs._

It had indeed been the last time they had made love. There had been a shower, after, which they had taken together, laughing and holding onto each other (and they had laughed so much together, and it had been unexpected, at first, that the two of them could so easily have fun and just enjoy each other's company.). There had been hot, black coffee drunk against the counter, shoulder to shoulder, in silence, while his clothes were drying and New York was going back to normal, and he had been acutely aware of the time.

Months later, on the first plane that would take him to New York, Declan Murphy couldn't help thinking about those last few hours he had spent with Amanda, and how he had felt, deep in his guts, that it had been more than sex, more than a week end romp, more than two solitudes meeting, for a few hours. He had been very good at not thinking about her, after. The hickeys and the scratch marks had faded, and he had gone in deep with his cover, never allowing himself the luxury of feeling. Of being truly himself. He needed to see Amanda.

He needed to look at her in the eyes and know whether the baby she was carrying was his. He wanted to know whether it had been that last time on the couch, the time he had felt too deeply, and he had thought that if he stayed longer, if he wasn't careful, he might fall in love with Amanda Rollins.


	3. Chapter 3

In a perfect world she would be going out of the bathroom and Declan would be on the couch, reading the paper with his glasses perched on the tip of his nose, she would smile, sit next to him, steal a kiss and the sports page and would tell him that they were going to have a baby; she would look at him, enjoy his reaction, see the joy in his eyes as realization set in that he was going to be a father. In a perfect world he would kiss her, cupping her face in his hands and she would feel safe.

Amanda had to sit on the lid of her bathtub when she realized that in her fantasy world Declan was there, they were together – and _God!_ , she thought with a snort, could she be more pathetic?

She was over thirty, single, she was addicted to gambling and the only reason she was clean was because the whole thing with Declan and the undercover job had been one hell of a wake up call. Walking the walk was difficult, she still needed to go to meetings every other day, and she also had about a million of issues, including the fact that she was pregnant with a child whose father she hadn't seen for _months._ And it got even better: she had no idea about Declan's whereabouts. She didn't even know if he was alright.

Oh God, he had to be alright! He had to!

She took a deep breath, her emotions were all over the place, and she had to get them under control, and do it immediately. Declan was alright. He had been an undercover cop for ten years, she had seen him while u.c. and she knew how good he was.

She nodded her head, wrapping her arms around her middle, her eyes were welling up with tears, but she was on the verge of laughing at the same time. Wasn't it just wonderful?

In a perfect world, he would be there, right next to her, he would tell her that things were going to be fine, that it wasn't something they had planned, but life was often unpredictable that way and they would be alright. Because when they were together there was nothing they couldn't do. And she would believe him - because she trusted him.

He wasn't there, though. The last time she had seen him they hadn't even talked. Not really; they had just – stared at each other.

 _It was supposed to be just sex, because what else could it be? He couldn't stay, he had a job to do, an important one, and she was just starting to get her life back together, she was starting to forgive herself, to stop blaming herself for what had happened with Patton –_

 _But it had stopped being about sex very soon – possibly even before they had actually_ madelove _._

 _And Amanda chose the ignore the wording of her thoughts. Whatever they had had – it didn't change the present: Declan was leaving. He was going back to being a trafficker, Johnny D's heir apparent. The sun was going down, and Declan was already dressed._

 _It hurt. It wasn't supposed to hurt like that, she wasn't supposed to feel like breathing was too difficult and blood was rushing to her head and her eyes were suspiciously stinging, even though they were dry._

 _She didn't know what to do or say. It wasn't the first time she had had a crazy week end with a man, but it felt different that time, because she did care about Declan, because they had laughed together, and she had loved the sound of their laughter mingling; they had eaten re-heated pizza and he had licked tomato sauce from her lips. They had watched infomercials and talked about_ things, _protected by the darkness of her bedroom._

 _Declan knew about Charles, not the specifics, but he was good at reading between the lines, he was good at making inferences – and he had. He had kissed her forehead whispering, "We're not all like him."_

 _So true. He was unlike any other man she had ever met._

 _He had made her feel cherished, protected._

 _They had made love while a blizzard outside made New York look like a magic landscape: white all over and it had made her feel like the world had narrowed down to just the two of them._

 _And he was leaving, now._

" _So." Declan started, breaking her train of thoughts._

 _Amanda smiled; Declan looked relaxed, balanced – she knew he was ready to go back to his job, and she knew he would be fine, she could see it in his eyes that he was truly better, and she was happy about it – Declan had saved her, the year before, and if she had helped him in return, if she had helped him seal the cracks that had started to show two nights before, then it was okay._

 _That wasn't really true, though, was it? She had not helped him because she owed him; she had been there for him because it was Declan - and she cared about him, and the fact that he had gone to her was the most humbling thing that had ever happened to her._

 _He looked around and smiled when Frannie yawned at him._

" _She_ really _likes you." She said, and it was not what she wanted to say. She didn't even know what she meant to tell him. They had not talked about the future – it had been something they both had glossed over…because, seriously, which future? They both had baggage, and Declan had a job to finish._

" _It's mutual." Declan said._

 _He was smiling but, and perhaps it was just wishful thinking on her part, but it sounded like his voice had come out slightly cracked. She took a step toward him, wishing she could go back to Friday night and do it all over again._

Get a grip! _She thought, clenching her jaws._

 _They were grownups, it had been possibly the best week end of her life, and she would always think back about it fondly, but she needed to chin up and stop acting as if she was the heroine of some bodice ripper!_

 _She shortened the distance between them and her smile didn't falter once. Declan was smiling as well._

 _It wasn't awkward. It was anything but – she didn't close the distance between them, perhaps because she felt that if she did she would hug him, say something stupid and end up making that moment really awkward._

 _In the end it was Declan who took another step, closing the distance between them and part of Amanda wanted to go and hide in her bedroom, because her heart wasn't supposed to beat so hard and fast in her chest – as if it wanted to burst out of it. She wasn't supposed to feel so much for a man that she wasn't sure she would ever see again._

 _Later she wouldn't remember who had moved first, she wouldn't remember if it had been Declan who had enveloped her in his arms or it had been the other way around. She would always remember the way she hid her face against the soft wool of his black sweater, how her hands slid under his jacket and sweater to touch his skin one last time._

 _She would always remember the way Declan held her, as if he didn't want to go, as if he wanted to stay there, with her._

" _Please, be safe." She whispered – and her voice came out steady, as if she wasn't hanging onto him, as if she couldn't hear how fast his heart was beating._

" _You too, darling." He said._

 _She giggled against his chest. She still hadn't got used to him using terms of endearment with her. She usually didn't care about them, but Declan had a way to really make them sound endearing._

 _"I will." She said._

 _And it was second nature for her to smile when it was the last thing she wanted, so she looked at him and her smile didn't waver._

 _Declan looked at her for a moment as if he wanted to say something, but he didn't in the end. He brushed her lips with his, and it would take her months, after, to acknowledge that when he kissed her, she came close to ask him to stay. Declan placed a chaste kiss on her forehead, lingering for a moment with his hand on the nape of her neck._

 _She realized that she was still in his arms, she was still touching his skin, and she needed to let go._

 _She needed to let him go._

 _And if Declan had been the one who had closed the distance between them a few minutes before, she was the one who eventually broke contact._

 _She smiled, and nodded at him, and kept looking at him as he went to the door._

 _She wished he would turn and looked at her. She wished he opened that door and left ..._

 _She smiled, but it felt like running a marathon - it took her breath away._

She hadn't said a word, of course. And she had lived her life, after. Because unlike her perfect fantasy world where Declan was part of her life, she was alone.

No. She wasn't alone. Not really. Not anymore. She was _pregnant_ \- she was going to be a mother.

Amanda was not home. He should have called her as soon as he landed in New York, but Declan had to admit he was not at the peak of his rationality at the moment – which was something he wasn't used to experience; he wouldn't have survived ten years on u.c. if he hadn't learned to keep it together.

Fred's words, though, had been a game changer.

He loved kids and there had been a time where he had wished for a family of his own: a wife, 1.5 kids, a dog – the whole nine yards. Life had had other plans for him: a fortnight undercover had become two months, then six – and before he knew it, his shield had stayed in a drawer of his desk in the squadroom, and he had been assigned to more and more complex investigations.

His marriage had gone to hell and he couldn't really blame Ava for that; he had been a real nightmare to be around back then: too green, too willing to prove himself , still unable to forget the things he saw, still unable to forgive himself for the choices he had to make.

So, no kids. He had his job and he doted on his nephews and nieces and on his grandsons.

He had also come to believe that it was the right thing to do after all – that if he was on his own, he wouldn't have weak spots or pressure points, he wouldn't have to worry about retribution from the scumbags he put away.

The idea of something happening to Amanda and her ( _their_ ) baby frankly terrified him, and he didn't scare easily.

He needed to see Amanda – he knew he wouldn't calm down and rationalize things until he saw her.

He had willingly refused to enquire about her for the past seven months – because he was 4000 miles away, dealing with monsters every single minute of every single day and she was –

She was his weakness, one he could not afford.

And yet he had got the hell out of dodge as soon as he had heard and maybe after sixteen months spent as Declan Bishop: ruthless pimp and heir of Johnny D. he was tired and he just wanted to go home.

Speaking of _home –_ he had suspected that Amanda wouldn't be home, because he knew her, she would go stir crazy without her job and he was pretty sure Liv was probably going to force her to be on desk duty.

He got in the rental car and headed to the precint, without even seeing his surroundings.

He saw her before he even thought about calling her name. God...She was _real!_ Hehad not allowed himself to think about her, he had done what it needed to be done...but he couldn't exactly control his subconscious, could he? And there had been dreams, hazy images behind his closed lids right before he woke up and had to start yet another day of senseless violence and filth.

She was there, she was _breathtaking_ and she was _pregnant_.

It all became very real; that sense of unreality he had experienced since Fred had told him was torn apart when he saw Amanda.

She was pregnant...And even if he felt it in his guts that she was carrying his child, he needed to know. He needed to hear it from her.

He needed to...talk to her (touch her), he needed to look at her (drink her in), talk to her (hold her).

"Amanda!" He called her name and he was suddenly very much aware of how he must look like: tired, wearing old jeans and a wrinkled shirt; he felt old and out of place...

...And stupidly happy to see the look of surprise and genuine joy flicker in Amanda's eyes when she looked at him.

"How far along are you?" He asked. Because that was not the time for pleasentaries.

Because he couldn't deal with everything right at that moment. He needed to hear the truth.

"Seven months?"Amanda said, and it was _everything._ Twowords were spinning the world on its axis.

He was going to be a father.

And if their lives were less of a mess of issues, duty, rules and enemies he would touch her, he would spin her in his arms...because he wanted that baby. He...

He wanted Amanda. It was that simple, really. It was about the only simple thing in his life right at that moment...because their lives _were_ a mess of issues, duty, rules and enemies.

And they were right outside her precint. And she was a pregnant woman with a gambling addiction and a troubled past – and he was her boss, technically. He was – God…he was just so _happy_ to see her, to be so close to her that he could touch her, that he could place a hand on her belly and feel the baby move.

He felt his body craving to move to be close to her, but he resisted the urge – he spoke, he said the words, even if later he wouldn't remember exactly what he told her. He would remember that Amanda asked him how long he would stay – and that he wished his answer was different. He wished he could tell her that he wasn't going anywhere, that he would be with her – that he wanted the baby – and not just because he was a decent man that would never walk away on his own kid.

He couldn't.

What he could do, right there, outside _their_ precint was saying half truths, the things he could actually say out loud.

And if his body strained to get close to her, if he could actually feel his heart in his throat, well…that was just to be expected.

And maybe he was wrong, maybe it was just wishful thinking, maybe those half formed dreams he allowed himself to indulge in right before waking up and spend another day as a sex trafficker, but – when Amanda told him that they would talk, he felt like it was a promise for the future, not about their kid (they were having a child, _together…_ and in the short span of a few hours it had become the most ridicously best shock of his life!), but about _them._

So there was only one thing he could do. He had to wait. And prepare.

He was good at that.

The first irrational feeling Amanda felt when she saw Declan Murphy, outside their precint, was relief. It was staggering. She had not allowed herself to dwell on whether he was okay, on whether he was in too deep, or on the dangers he faced every single day.

He was alive, he was _fine_ , he looked tired – but he was suddenly real.

There had been a moment, one she later thought about it, where she wanted him to see that she was pregnant, that she was carrying his child, that they had created a life, together. And when he asked her if the baby was his (and she suspected that he already knew the answer or he wouldn't have left Serbia – for her – to make sure it was) she could only nod.

She had imagined to tell him in million of ways, she had daydreamed about it – which was on top of the most crazy things she had ever experienced.

But…Declan, outside their precinct, calling her name, being – the man she had met and (loved) spent time with, even for a couple of days had been humbling, a surprise – it had sped up her heart so much that she had to take a moment, when she went inside, to calm down, to stop feeling on the verge both of tears and a nervous fit of giggling.

She had missed him. That was the truth, the simple, honest truth. She had missed him, in ways that she hadn't expected.

Her life had gone on, after that week end, she had walked the walk, lived every day, she had tried to make things work with Nick, but – Declan had still been there, and that week end they had spent together had ended up meaning more to her than she had anticipated, even before she found out she was pregnant.

4000 miles away – and he had left everything to see her, to tell her that he would not walk away on _them_ – and she had believed him. God – she had missed knowing that she could trust Declan, that he had her back.

They had agreed that they needed to talk, and Amanda was glad for the situation at work, because she needed time – because part of her wanted _everything_. She wanted Declan with her, she wanted him in her life on a permanent basis, she wanted him to know his child, to be a father – but also to be…what, exactly? Her boyfriend, her partner?

And part of her, a small, childish, petty part of her wanted to throw it in anyone's face: she wanted her mother to see that she had a good man, a honest, stand up guy – and it didn't even matter the way they had met, how she had slid on her knees between the vee of his thighs and how he had saved her, how he had to ask favors not to let her lose her shield.

She wanted her child to know that its daddy would never abandon them, that he was a good man who risked his life (and his soul at times) to protect innocents, to serve the greater good.

She was in the bathroom, her cheeks flushed, droplets of water trailing down her face and on her wrists when realization hit her.

She was in love with Declan Murphy.

And although the man could not stay, although it was all kind of complicated, she didn't think she had ever been less scared in her life.

" _Tonight, 8 p.m. I'll pick you up at your place."_

The text Declan sent her made her smile.

" _Where are we going?"_

She texted back, feeling all of sudden like a teenager and not like a grown up, pregnant woman.

" _Let me surprise you."_

It was Declan's reply.

"It's all you've ever done since I met you…" She whispered before replying with other words – and if they were filled with innuendos, if she went back with her mind to lips brushing in the dark, to quiet words and laughter while eating in bed – well, she didn't care.

Not really.


End file.
